The Secret To A Happily Ever After
by iRomantic
Summary: Warren Peace has never believed in happily ever afters. His entire life have been nothing but one tragedy after another, making him scornful of fairytale endings. But when he meets Will and Layla, they're going to prove him wrong.


I originally wanted to make this into a story but I decided to make this a fanfiction instead. :) And because I've always thought that Sky High had so much incredible potential, I decided to channel it through this.

Warren's POV, he's always been my favourite character in the movie.

I do not own Sky High or anything that they have copyrighted. Just sayin'.

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><p>I never believed in happily ever afters.<p>

I don't mean to sound pessimistic or jaded or cynical or narrow minded or cold, though many will call me that. To be honest, I never understood why when you disagree with something that strays from the logical, people would accuse you of being those things just because they fear the truth. I've never been the most courageous guy the world has ever seen. I never knew how to keep a cool head and I have never been one to laugh in the face of death. But I'm definitely not coward enough to hide behind pathetic fairytales that will never happen just because my life is bad.

As you probably already summed up, I'm not a dreamer. I have dreams like everyone else, fantasies. But at the end of the day, they are still fantasies and they may never happen and you're better off channeling your time, energy and money into something that has a chance of working out. Yes, I'm realistic. Some may call it pigheadedness and small minded.

So what? As I discovered at a very young age, you need that if you ever want to survive in a world that seems determined to bring you down.

Few people get happy endings and at the end of the day, its never the happy endings they dreamed of. They may be happy but there's this tiny _something_ in the back of their mind; a little regret, a bit of "**Why**?" And it can never really be considered a happy ending because they look back and wonder what would've happened if they had taken _that_ path, a different path. Would life have been better or worse? Would they have been happier or suffered?

As you read this, you must really be wondering what on earth made me this way. What had made me cold and cynical, a hard layer of ice covering my heart. Wondering what on earth made me believe that happy endings were long gone and unable to achieve. The truth is, the story is difficult to begin and hard to grasp. To make you truly understand, I will not only be bringing you into my life and story but also into the lives and stories of those in my life.

And honestly, I have not the slightest idea where to begin.

So I will begin where you will be able to understand ; the beginning.

I was born right in the middle of the a smoldering, dry, cracked, sunburned summer and a gusty, bone chattering, stone cold autumn. It was that one perfect day where the weather seemed to be at its best; the sun was glowing bright in the azure sky but not burning while there was a slight breeze to the air but not cold enough to make your teeth chatter. Whenever anyone recalled that day, they would say, "It was a lucky day."

Was it? I wouldn't know.

When my mum reminisces the day I was born, she always says the same thing; I was a baby suited to that perfect day. I arrived at 5:54 p.m. on the dot, no fuss, no bother. I wasn't too big, I wasn't too small. I was healthy and bawling but not too loudly. In fact, the only thing the doctor who delivered me would remember me by would probably be his nose which I punched when he lifted me up. Newborn babies when they are freshly delivered don't have much strength, their organs and bones are soft so whatever they do, no matter how hard they kick and punch someone, the person won't be hurt. However, I managed to punch the doctor in the nose so hard, his nose broke and blood spurted not only all over me but down his pure white coat.

I guess you could say I was a special baby.

My mother named me Warren Baron Peace and she said it was the perfect name for me. Me? I wasn't too sure but when I tried to think up a new, better name for myself, nothing would come except for War 'n' Peace. Which was cool but it was still part of the name she gave me so in the end, I suppose she was right.

The strange part was, Peace was my mother's surname.

It never really bothered me when I was younger but as I grew older, I noticed that everyone I knew had their father's surnames while mine was my mother's. The truth is, as I later found out, my parents didn't marry at all. I was, putting it simply, illegitimate.

My parents had this strange relationship where my mother was madly and deeply in love with him and he liked her okay but wasn't _in_ love with her. She gave up everything for him, from what I'd heard. When she fell pregnant with me, her family was so disgusted, they disinherited her, so ashamed they were of a daughter who not only was bearing a child out of wedlock, but who was bearing a child who belonged to a man whose name they didn't think was worth uttering. I grew up without grandparents or aunts or uncles but it didn't bother me because I figured that if they never wanted me born in the first place, they weren't worth shedding tears over. At least that was what I told my mum when she called them for help only to have the phone slammed down on the other end.

I had a relatively average childhood. I lived in San Francisco then, in a posh neighborhood with three storey bungalows that you only saw in movies. I had sprawling, landscaped, emerald green lawns in my front yard and the entire slice of beach and sea at my back. There was a park within a five minute walk from the neighborhood, a park with a huge playground, a basketball court, a tennis court, a field and a jogging track. I spent my childhood running and surfing and playing every sport imaginable; basketball, tennis, hockey, ice hockey, Rollerblading, baseball. Because I was taller than most my age and adapted faster, I had an edge over everyone around me. I was outgoing, friendly and had a brilliant future lined up waiting for me, both academically and sports related.

My home life was far to be desired, however. My mother had never really needed to take care of the bills (As I discovered later, my father took care of our every need that involved money because he was filthy rich) so she worked just for the sake of working. Our house may have been luxurious and beautiful but to me, it had always felt a lot like when you looked at my mum, unloved and unlived in. There was always this strange cloud that pressed over my life, full of sadness and loneliness and confusion because my mum wasn't like other mums. She didn't dote on me and she didn't make me her number one. That much was obvious.

My father remained a passing shadow through my life.

He would appear once or twice after weeks and weeks and weeks of him vanishing mysteriously from my life. He would be MIA when I left for school in the mornings but when I returned home, he would be waiting by the front door, a huge box of presents in his arms and a huge beam on his face that didn't light up his azure eyes which would remain cold. He brought the presents everytime just to win my forgiveness for disappearing from my life and they were always huge and expensive, things that I would drool all over. And call me a fool for I was as a kid, I would forgive him each and every time for breaking my tiny heart just because he brought those presents.

Which was his intention, of course.

He was like that, my father. Incredible and charming. He could sweet talk his way through anything, get around anyone. My mother especially, was enamored by him, would always forgive him as he brought back expensive jewels and clothes for her. She would laugh and embrace him and welcome him with open arms.

She was so sure of him, right up until the end.

In spite of that, my father wasn't a good person. Not even a good father. He would give me presents, tell me how big and strong I was getting, tell me how wonderful and precious I was but he never played with me. He would pat me on the head but that was about as affectionate as he could go. When I cried, he would fly into rages. On some occasions, he threw things at me - seizing the nearest items he could and just chucking it in my random direction to shut me up - or screamed at me before storming off. They always ended badly and the more times that happened, the more resentful I became. Even then, watching him, I vowed to myself I would never do that to my child. Heck, I promised myself I wouldn't do that to **anyone**, even if I thought they deserved it.

It began to get wearisome.

As I got older, my father would show up with more lavish, bigger, much more expensive presents. He could tell that it was starting to get old, that even I was beginning to see through his tricks and was desperate to hang on, just for a little bit.

There was something I noticed about my father. He needed to be needed. That was why he would show up so frequently, just to see that little happy smile on my mum's face and the excitement in my eyes. If I stopped needing him, he was crushed.

It would always end the same, ever single time he showed up. I would be trudging home from school and spot him, almost immediately, standing by the front door and grinning that grin that didn't reach his eyes with a new batch of presents intended to win my heart and favour. I would accept his presence with a resigned air, knowing full well that in a few days time, it would come down to the same thing; an empty kitchen, a cheerful note, an empty promise and the tear filled eyes of my mother who would turn away from me the moment I entered the room, hiding my father's recent betrayal, the room ringing with his absence. No longer pausing to greet him, I would merely murmur a quick, "Hi Dad" and brush past, no longer stopping to feel guilty as his lips fell into a thin line and his eyes narrowed. Soon, his visits became less and less frequent.

Having said that, you must be under the assumption that my mother is a perfect angel. An angel with beautiful hair and wide, innocent eyes and a kind face as she put up with all the horrors of everyday life, waiting anxiously for my father and raising me single handedly.

The truth?

She wasn't.

She tried her best, I'm sure, coping with a kid and the aggressive unpredictability of my father but I got the feeling that she didn't try as hard as she should. She was very emotional; laughing one minute and crying the next. She hugged me sometimes but the hugs were lifeless, something she forced herself to do because she thought that was what a good mother had to do. She did everything she could for me, raising me as best as she could with the love of her life only returning to her whenever he felt like it but I didn't fool myself into thinking that I was the most important thing in her life. She put my father as number one on her list of priorities; if he asked her to kill me, she would do so and gladly just because he showed her a tiny bit of affection. That absolutely _sick_ thing they called love was something that followed me as I grew up and I not only was sad by my mother's obvious naivety but also scornful. As far as I could see and no matter how sympathetic I was, there was no doubt that she had brought this all upon herself. She was someone I cared for dearly but in the end, she wasn't the best mother in the world. I was aware that in the end, the only reason she kept me at all was because I was **his** son with her.

It was because of this, I grew scornful of love for love brought nothing but fleeting joy and pain. An emotion that was better off rid from the world.

Because of the rocky relationship with my father and the one sided love I observed between my parents, I became bitter. I hated it, hated all of it. I grew up believing that love was this, one sided, painful. I vowed never to give myself over to such an accursed emotion because it would do me no good.

Other than that, my life was fairly normal. Even in kindergarten, I was popular. Talented, charming, I had lots of friends and was basically all rounded. Things just got even better when I reached elementary school.

I should've known it'd been all too good to last.

The morning began as just every other morning started out for every other third grader. I woke up to the blaring of the alarm and stumbled out of bed, getting ready for school. School had been something of an escape for me; someplace where I didn't have to worry about the heavy cloud hanging over the house and just enjoy myself for a bit. I didn't bother waking my mum as I seized my bag, exited my room and clattered down the stairs - she always slept in until at least eight each weekday. Tossing my backpack on the kitchen island, I fixed myself some Frosties with milk and padded into the living room for some cartoons, as was my routine each morning.

Later, I never did remember what movie I'd gotten around to watching that morning but it must have been a good one because I was so engrossed in watching it, by the time I'd looked up to glance at the clock hanging over the entrance of the kitchen, I realized I was running severely late. Switching off the TV and chowing down my breakfast as I went, I leaped lightly off the coach and raced for the kitchen. After dumping my bowl in the sink and grabbing my bag off the kitchen island, I was out of the door, keeping a steady pace out of the neighborhood.

On a whim, I decided to take a shortcut through the Broadwalk.

The Broadwalk was one of my favourite places in San Francisco, mostly because its like a shopping mall but out in open air. And since the weather is pretty much sunny 24/7, I took advantage of it and came here whenever I was forced to go grocery shopping. The entire thing snaked halfway across town and had a handy shortcut to the back of my school which I used whenever I was late. Such as now.

"Hello, Warren!"

I started a little at the voice and slowed down as I peered over to my left. I was passing by Mr Leese's bookshop, a place I frequented when I was in the mood for some alone time out of the house. Mr Leese was a fairly nice guy with hair that was going thin at the top and turning silver by the ears. He was like everyone's favourite grandfather, the kind that winked at you behind your parents's backs and slipped you money to spend on trips to the arcades and purchasing comic books. His grandson, Matthew, was on my basketball team in school, one year younger than me. I liked talking to Mr Leese, mainly because he had so many interesting stories to tell.

"Hi, Mr Leese!" I called back, pausing to wave. As I did so, my eyes fell on the newspaper stand, where today's stack of newspapers were arranged neatly. A bold headline jumped out at me - "**Baron strikes again**!"

_Baron?_ Oh. The supervillian who had been creating havoc not only in San Francisco but also in the states surrounding it. He'd set off a grenade in a bank in the next city recently, killing three people and injuring twelve. So far, no one had been able to catch him, not the police, not the army and not the giant team of superheroes who'd tried, unsuccessfully, in the past three months. Apparently, in recent months, he'd started aiming for bigger and better things; bombing cities, breaking into banks, ambushing a government meeting at one point. I didn't really keep up with the news, especially concerning superheroes - I was more attracted to the sports and comic sections of the newspaper - but it was hard to ignore the explosive headlines whenever I found the newspaper on the coffee table on the living room.

I spotted a giant photograph beneath the headline and curious, in spite of my obvious lateness, I walked over to peer at it. It was a blurry shot with smoke obscuring dark figures behind it but I could just about make out a face through the white mist. The camera had zoomed up on it, partially covered but I could see the eyes, glittering. Somehow, the face looked strangely familiar. I tilted my head, squinting at it, trying to figure out where I'd seen it before. There was a slight smile pulling at the lips, a cruel smile that seemed to make the cold eyes even harder than it was . . .

_Oh God_.

Those eyes. That smile. The structure of the face.

I reeled back, feeling shock hit every single nerve in my body as recognition washed over me and numbed all the muscles within me. My mind was throwing me memories - showing me that face, so familiar, because it was alike to mine . . . that cruel smile . . . those cold eyes . . . eyes that I'd never ever seen ever light up . . .

I stared at it harder, closer and saw the undoubted likeness, things that anybody else wouldn't notice - the hair, dark and tousled, standing up at the back . . . hair that always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed . . . those high cheekbones . . . cheekbones that made his face thinner and sharper than it really was, giving his smile a charming twist . . . my eyes dropped from his face to the body . . . broad shoulders that were my heritage . . . lean and nicely muscled . . . he was dressed in black . . . black, his favourite colour . . .

The Baron. Baron Battle.

Oh God.

My head was spinning dizzily as I processed it all quickly. My father's mysterious disappearances, all that incredible money he had even though I had never seen him work a day of my life, things that just moved on its own accord around me. The way he would look at me when I was younger and say, "One day, its going to be _you_ who will change the world." How he always seemed to know the weirdest things; blueprints of the bank, exact location of safes, the nearest and deadliest weapon company. The worst thing I'd ever thought he was, especially when I was younger, was him being the gang leader of the mafia but this? This was **worst**.

"Warren?"

Distantly, I heard someone call out my name but the only things that filled up my head like fog were the horrible things I'd heard The Baron do. All the innocent families he'd ripped apart. Lives he'd ruined. Lives he'd taken. Money that weren't his gone. People hurt and terrified and left with nothing but their lives and that was only if they were lucky.

"Warren?" More persistent. Worried.

But I didn't hear. Because I was filled with a horror and shame the likes I'd never felt before. Oh God. All the horrible things he'd done . . . and I was a part of him. I carried within me the same genes he had within him. I even looked like him. I'd spent my life calling him father, I'd used the money he'd taken from innocent families on my own selfish means, I'd taken his presents, presents that I was sure had had blood shed just for them. Worse things were filling up, unfurling within me and I felt bile rise up in my throat. And inside me, deep inside me, I felt a fury the likes of which I had felt before but never really had given a thought to before, a fury that reared up like an angry tiger, a need to rip someone's face out, an anger that was dark and terrible and deadly. It was like fire, it raged within me, sweeping fast through my body, holding me immobile to its intense power momentarily and for a split second, I swear my hands began smoking.

"WARREN!"

Hands on my shoulders, shaking me. A face swimming in my vision. A kind, worried face but I didn't care, I felt claustrophobic and terrified, the fury vanishing about as quickly as it had come. I felt all four walls pressing down upon me, determined to crush me. I needed to get away.

"Go away," I said, my voice sounding strangely dead even to my ears. I struggled to get out of his grip but he was too strong, holding on to me tightly.

"Warren, what's wrong?" he insisted and dimly, I realized it was Mr Leese. But I didn't care, I needed to get away. Get far, far away . . . Away from here . . . I needed answers and questions answered. I needed a confirmation. "Tell me, I can help."

"You can't," I said, still struggling. I felt numb. "Let go of me . . . let go . . . "

"No," he refused, holding on, his kind face still suddenly and unexpectedly determined. "Tell me what happened, I can help you. What's wrong, Warren? Stop struggling! Tell me what's wrong."

"Stop it," I said and my voice had a wild edge to it. Desperation and anger was starting to well up within me. "Go away, let go."

He didn't; I felt his grip harden and the desperation and anger were beginning to burn fiercely in my chest.

"Just - " Mr Leese started and then the rest passed by in a blur.

I felt something explode out of me, that burning feeling in my chest gushing out. It flared out around me, something hot and bright and multicoloured. I wasn't sure what it was; I was terrified of it.

But the moment it was released, Mr Leese let out a terrible scream and let go of me, snatching his hands away as if I were on fire. And the strangest part was? I'm pretty sure I was. But I didn't care. For the moment he'd let go of me, I'd split, shooting off in some random direction almost blindly, feeling a determination to not only get away but also to learn the truth, the whole truth. I needed to know about my father and mother. I had a right to know who _I_ was. Who I was going to be.

_What_ I was going to be.

I was right at the gate when I realized that I was home. I sprinted past the neatly manicured lawns and right up the doorstep. I yanked the door open and pounded right into the living room, heart beating madly in my chest.

I burst into the kitchen and almost ran down my mum, fixing herself breakfast. She let out a small scream of fright, small in her neon blue robe and hair tousled from sleep. Her wide eyes turned upon me as I stood at the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wild.

"Warren," she said. "Wha - "

"Tell me about my father," I said, my voice suddenly quiet but slightly wild; there was an edge to it that sounded almost like crying. "Tell me how you met him. Tell me - " My voice broke then because I'd caught sight of her expression which confirmed my very worst fears; they were wide and horrified and guilty. My next words caught in my throat. I meant to say "Tell me the truth" but what came out was almost a pleading, "Tell me its not true, mum. Tell me he's not evil. Tell me he didn't do it."

She gazed back at me, stony faced.

"Tell me," I said.

"What am I."

* * *

><p>I was a superhero.<p>

Or a supervillian. Whichever one I preferred. Or, in this case, whose powers and whose side I'd inherited that was stronger within me.

It certainly explained the many questions that had build up in my head. For example, why my mother's side of the family detested my father, why they had abandoned and disinherited her when they discovered she was pregnant with his child and why they refused to even speak to her when she called them. Because my mother was a superhero. Her entire family were superheroes, saving the world, helping others and doing their best to put in some balance to the world - exactly the opposite of what my father was doing. Knowing their only daughter and the very last in the Peace family superhero line had fallen in love with who was probably the worst bad guy in the entire history of bad guys . . . well, let's just say I could see why they would be so disgusted, they never wanted to see her again. Falling in love was one thing but bearing his child and abetting him in his crazy plans was another.

And yes, our family had superpowers.

My mother's used to be force fields. She could use it not only to shield herself from any attack but also encase herself completely in it to hide herself. The energy ball could turn her completely invisible. She would also be able to capture an enemy in the energy ball which would neutralize his/her powers once in it.

But then, you would have noticed the past tense. She _used_ to have the power of force fields.

Apparently, powers can be affected by intense emotional trauma. When she discovered she was pregnant and her family decided to disinherit her, she suffered such a tremendous shock that it permanently expelled her powers. She can still summon up a little bit but nothing major, just tiny energy balls that could bounce off someone's head and momentarily confuse him. Definitely none of the amazing things she used to be able to do, as she described to me. She spent the rest of the afternoon telling me all the things she'd been able to do and all the incredible adventures she'd had. Her eyes sparkled with a terrible wistfulness as she spoke of them and looking at her, I knew that if she had a choice, she would want her old life back. As far as I could see it, my father had really screwed her over and wasn't even sorry for it.

She wouldn't tell me what was my father's but from the nervous way she reacted when I asked her, I could tell it was something terrible. Which only made me think very uncomfortably about the sudden fury that had arisen earlier that day and the way Mr Leese had yanked his hands back. As if I'd suddenly caught on fire.

_I won't be like him_, I thought so fiercely, the thought seemed to burn upon my lips. _I **won't**_.

My mother smiled warmly at me and reached over to lay her hand over mine. Her eyes, hazel eyes that were like a perfect photocopy of mine, stared back at me. Her eyes were soft and nearly always filled with warm wetness as opposed to mine which were harder and nearly always filled with something sinister that even I recognized when looking in the mirror but they were the same as mine. My eyes were one of the few things that I actually liked about myself.

I was surprised by her affection; she was almost never like this. When she did reveal any affection, it was almost forced. But now, she seemed very natural, like a real mother.

"You're going to be a wonderful superhero, Warren," she said warmly. "I promise."

I stared back at her and before I could stop it, a low voice started up in the back of my mind. _But I don't want to be a superhero._

She was looking at me with a bright, hopeful beam on her face that I didn't have the heart to crush. So I found myself saying, in the end, "Of course, mum" and feeling contempt rise up in my throat when the beam widened. The voice began again, filled with that contempt as it said, _Superheroes are meant to be crushed_.

I spent the rest of the day wondering who I'd turned into.

The years passed and as I grew older, I begun to get more detached from my friends. Maybe it was the secret burning within me or maybe it was just because I was getting older but either way, the results were the same; I didn't need anyone's company any longer. I became moody, brooding, I kept to myself all the time and I wasn't troubled when everyone recoiled from me when passing me in the hallways. As I got older, I realized that the sinister look in my eyes, the deep, dark gleam that seemed to show a colder part of me became more profound and intense. It worked in my favour because it meant that everyone left me alone. I preferred to be alone.

My powers?

My powers surfaced over the summer before sixth grade. Apparently, it was around that age where kids got around to realizing their full superpowers. Superpowers weren't obvious from the beginning and they usually came right in a rush, usually due to something that either made you really happy or really angry. They were attuned to your emotions and your feelings; it was a really huge accomplishment if you were able to detach your true thoughts from your powers. Few were able to. However, when superheroes - or supervillians - were at a very young age and not at all aware of their abilities, they could be releasing it unconsciously although it wouldn't be anything major.

Mine stayed MIA through the rest of third grade, past fourth grade and into fifth grade. They didn't come even when I got over the initial shock and secretly attempted to practice, imagining bubbles of energy enveloping me or hitting other stuff. After awhile, I became not only discouraged and disappointed, I just simply gave up and put it out of my mind. It stayed out of my mind too, until the summer rolled around.

My mother had been absolutely 100% positive that I was going to inherit her powers.

"I know you'll be a great superhero," she would say cheerily over dinner. "You'll be absolutely brilliant; I can imagine you with all those bubbles of energy rocketing around." And her eyes would fill with happy tears.

Me? Even then, I would feel doubt nagging at me.

Because the truth was, straight from the beginning, I'd always inherited more stuff from my father than from my mother.

I even looked like him, from the fine boned face to the high cheekbones to the pointed chin. My hair was black and ruffled like his only I'd kept it long, nearly to my shoulders so it was messier and wilder. I'd inherited his broad shoulders and well muscled body, my lips were thin and always seemed to smirk on the rare occasion I smiled. I walked like him, a graceful lope like the relaxed stance of a predatory panther who could pounce at any minute. The only thing about my appearence I'd inherited from my mother were her brown eyes but they were as hard and sinister as my father's, something that troubled me. Whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, I would insist to myself that that was where the similarities between him and I ended for I never wanted to be like him.

My powers arrived completely unexpectedly.

I was lying out on the lawn that Saturday evening, head tilted upwards to stare at the rapidly darkening sky. In the past, I was never home on Saturdays; there were always places to go, friends to visit, parties to attend, warmth and laughter surrounding me. In the past, the engulfing loneliness felt too much to bear, the silence ringing and pressing upon my eardrums but now, I felt myself regrading it all with relief.

That feeling was back again. It always arrived out of the blue, strong, whenever I least expected it. A dark burning in my chest, a trembling in the stomach. A lurking power behind it that I had to admit I was a little apprehensive of.

I ignored it. My thoughts were far away, thinking back on the day I'd finally discovered the family secret and thinking back on my father. I could feel anger uncoiling fast within my stomach. Okay, so he was the bad guy. But did that mean he was supposed to be the most horrible father of all time? Did that mean he was supposed to break my mother's heart and abandon us until it was to his convenience to attend to us and our needs. And then there was the whole villain thing. Was it _compulsory_ for him to become the bad guy and tear apart hundreds of innocent lives? Couldn't he just work a day job, earn us cash the hard but honest way and have a normal life? Or simply be the good guy and beat bad guy butt? Was it so hard to do something decent for once in his freaking life?

The more the thoughts dominated my mind, the more that feeling, that weird burning feeling that felt almost like feverish pain within me - but not painful in a bad way, more like a ticklish, squirming pain - intensified. It seemed to burn in me, hotter and hotter and hotter until I couldn't help but pay attention. When I looked down to see whether my chest really was on fire, I saw it.

My hands. My hands were on fire.

I let out a frightened yell and leaped to my feet, slamming my hands down on the ground in an attempt to get rid of the flames. _Funny how it didn't hurt me, didn't burn me_, some cool, distant part of my mind noted but I wasn't listening to it. I was beyond frightened. I just wanted to put it out.

My mother was scared of fire and in a way, growing up, she taught me to be as well. She never wanted any fire in the house, even when there was a blackout and we didn't have a flashlight. I never really knew why fire always both unsettled and fascinated me and I never knew why I was brought up to fear it. But either way, I was scared of it.

It was a mistake putting my hands on the ground. The moment the flames touched grass, it spread faster than I would've thought possible. It rushed across the lawn, dancing high into the sky, everything burning. It was chaos, everything catching on fire so quickly, the wind directing it west.

Everything was burning, sweat running down my temples. My hair was flying all over my face and panic had frozen me in place, helpless to watch as the fire ravaged fast, greedily eating up everything. Black smoke spiraled upwards. Everything was confusing, terrifying. And then a single thought, a single realization made the blood running through my veins turn cold.

It was heading towards the neighbor's house. A house with a little boy named Timmy playing happily on the lawn.

Even as I thought it, I heard the dreaded sound, a piteous shriek. The fire had melted the fence separating our houses partially and had spread into the next lawn. Too quickly. Too fast for a little boy to run.

Before I knew it, I was running. It was like I was impervious to the heat, the fire couldn't touch me. I ran through it all, looping over the melting fence quickly, ignoring the searing pain on my palms when it came in contact with the burning metal. All I could think of was the little boy. My heart was hammering fast in my throat. Everything was a blur as I rushed through the dancing, red flames, looking for a frightened face. Looking for something not yet charred by the unrelenting flames. Looking, desperate, begging the heavens.

Everything that happened next became nothing but fragmented images of overwhelmingly confusion and fear.

All I remembered was finding that kid. Standing over him . . . feeling panic and fear and helplessness collide because I couldn't save him . . . Flames going higher . . . Screams on the other side of the flame barrier . . . the continuous wailing behind me . . . Dizzying sense of falling . . . A desperate need clawing upwards inside of me . . . A voice in my head screaming _Stop_ . . . Holding onto the little, shaking body . . . Wanting to protect and yet unsure in my ability to do so . . . Wanting for all of it to stop . . . Wanting to run away . . . Far, far away . . .

The flames died.

Not because it was put out with water. It just simply died, sputtered out. And when I looked up, I could see everyone staring at me. Holding buckets of water ready. Their expressions full of fear and shock and for a minute, I was sure it was because of me. I was sure they were afraid of me because I knew with quiet certainty, it was not only me that had started the fire but me who had out it out just by a thought and will.

I was a freak.

But then they were all rushing forward, crying out with both relief and worry, holding me, touching me, pouncing on the little boy in my arms. I was alive. I was unscathed. I'd came out from the fire looking like I'd never gone in at all. In fact, better; the wounds upon my palms from touching the burning metal of the melting fence had been healed completely, as if the fire had boosted the healing process.

If only I could say the same for the little boy.

Watching the others crowd around him, seeing his face in the arms of his sobbing mother, I felt shame like I'd never felt before creep over me. I felt contaminated, a curse, dirty. I didn't deserve to live.

I was like him. I was like my **father**.

My mother never looked at me the same way again.

* * *

><p>That day haunted me in my dreams every night and I couldn't help flinching everytime a flame was lighted near me. The worst part was my father's approval; he arrived home a week prior to the incident beaming all over his face and for the first time, I realized his eyes were warm rather than completely frozen over.<p>

"That's my boy," he said, slapping me on the back jovially and for a minute, I felt like we were really bonded in a father-son way. Until he said, "I know you'll be a brilliant villain. A chip off the old block, eh?"

The sudden spark of happiness in my chest was doused as efficiently as if by a bucket of cold water. It made my tone sharper than I'd intended when I snapped, "Dad. I'm not going to be a villain. Okay? I'm just a normal, average kid. Leave me alone." I tried to slip away and up the stairs to my room to sulk but his fingers clamped down fast and hard upon my shoulder and made it impossible for me to escape.

"You're not a dumb mortal, Warren," he said dispassionately. "Don't be so ridiculous. Mortals aren't considered people; they're unintelligent. You are a part of something much bigger."

I felt that burning feeling rise in my chest again as well as a headache beginning to pound my temples. I forced both down and tried to speak calmly while attempting to wriggle out of his grasp. "Mortals aren't stupid, dad. Okay? I'm around mortals everyday. Just because they don't have the same abilities as us - " _Lucky them_. "Doesn't mean they're dumb."

He looked down at me and I watched as his eyes went cold again.

"Careful, son," he said slowly, eyes searching mine, trying to yank emotions and secrets from my very soul. "You're starting to sound like one of those goddamned superheroes."

Okay, the truth was I hated superheroes as well. The thought of being included as one of those do gooders made bile rise up in my throat. I guess that must've shown in my face because my father relaxed and smiled easily again.

"I knew it," he said, satisfaction ripe in his voice. "You're a villain. Its in your blood."

Before I could say anything, the door to the kitchen opened and my mother wandered in, looking just about as tired as I felt. Until she looked up and caught sight of her beloved Baron Battle. As expected, her exhausted expression vanished to be replaced by a look of absolute delight, giving her face a completely healthy glow. She looked like a girl of sixteen who'd just seen her boyfriend the star of the football team. I felt bile rise up in my throat all over again.

"Baron!" She let out a girlish scream and ran forward to embrace him. He smiled at her but didn't take his hand off my shoulder, forcing her to run to his other side and give him a side hug instead of a proper hug. Not that she minded but the burning feeling was back in my chest.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said, patting her on the head like she was a dog. "Nice to see you. As I was telling dear old Warren here, he's a villain. And its definitely in his blood to be one. I think we should send him to Black Academy, where he'll get a proper education."

And then I witnessed a miracle.

For the first time in my entire life, probably the first time ever, I watched my mother's smile falter in my father's presence. For once, beside my father she didn't look like a hapless Barbie doll with a huge plastic smile and worshiping eyes. In fact, she looked almost human as she stared up at him as if he'd just suggested to throw me off the Empire State building just to see how long it would take for me to hit the ground.

"Black . . . Academy?" she asked faintly.

"Yes, Black Academy," he repeated easily, not noticing the change in his usually mindless groupie. In fact, he was looking down at me, smiling, his cold eyes warm with pride. Too bad I now hated him too much to be happy about that. "Its a school specially for educating villains. Its _extremely_ private; only the best villains know it. It'll teach you all you need to know." He nodded as if it was already confirmed.

"No," I said. "I'm not going to that school, no way. I _told_ you, I'm a normal kid."

"Please, you'll love it the moment you get there," he said cheerily. He spoke about it as if it was some prestigious country club. "My son will carry on my legacy."

"To hell with your legacy!" I yelled, jerking away from him in an attempt to get his hand off me. "I'm not going to that school!"

My mother gasped.

For a minute, I really thought that my father would hit me. His face had transformed to become every bit an evil villain: cold, harsh and merciless. I knew that it hadn't been the wisest idea to yell at him but I actually _wanted_ to pick a fight. My chest felt like it was on fire again. I felt angry, irrational - I wanted to beat someone up, I wanted to scream and kick. I was sick and tired of holding back.

Then suddenly, his expression softened and he smiled again. It was disturbing just how coolly he could recover from his villain state and for a moment, I was completely disconcerted as he said,"I understand its a little hard to take but you'll understand. Its a high school, you have a few more years to get around to it. But once you get a hang of it, it'll be brilliant."

"Dad - " I started to say.

"No buts," he exclaimed loudly. He squeezed my shoulder painfully tight and I grunted. "You'll be amazing, I can feel it in my bones. Anyways, I have to go. Things to do, people to see. But I'm proud of my boy."

And with that, he was gone, in a flurry of goodbyes and promises he would never keep. He barely spared a glance at my mother as he did so and I would've felt sorry for her if I wasn't so mad at her for keeping largely silent during the conversation.

"Thanks," I told her, sarcastically. She was standing stock still in the middle of the room, looking pale and uncertain.

"Warren . . . "

"No, really," I growled. "You were a really big help. Like you were for most of my life."

With that, I turned, intending to storm right out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into my room to possibly tear down all the walls. The burning feeling in my chest was gone but it was replaced by annoyed graveness. My entire family was seriously pissing me off.

But just then, a firm hand landed on my wrist and dragged me back with surprising strength. Startled, I looked back and found myself staring into my mother's intense eyes. She had on an expression of determination and absolute certainty - two things I'd never seen on her face before.

What a time for first times, I couldn't help thinking darkly.

"Mum," I said. "Wha - "

"Promise me, Warren," she said. "Promise me you'll never, ever become the bad guy. There is so much good inside of you, aching to grow - I can feel it. You are not the bad guy. You can be good . . . if you give yourself that chance."

Needless to say, her words scared me. Not just the words but the intensity. It was frightening.

"Mum . . . "

"Promise me, Warren," she persisted. Her grip didn't slacken. "Don't be the bad guy. Please. You are so special . . . Too special to be lost in a world of cruelty and unhappiness. There is so much light in you. You just need to find and embrace it because you still do not know who you are.

"**Promise me**."

"Okay!" I said, a little louder than intended. "I promise."

As I said the words, she seemed to visibly relax. The grip on my arm slackened and she took her hand away. She was smiling, a little sadly as she looked at me and I had to say, it creeped me out.

"Thank you," she said.

I just stared at her, holding onto my arm.

"Fire isn't necessarily a curse, you know," she added conversationally. "It can also be a gift. Fire can do many terrible things . . . but it can also do many great things. Like you, I suppose."

Now _that_ . . . that hit home.

After that, I practiced on my skills. It was cool, I suppose, if not a little scary but I soon learned how to control it. I felt a special connection to it somehow and I knew it sounded stupid but it was the truth. Fire felt like the only friend I could bear having around, warm and comforting and fierce. I learned a lot faster than most people my age who had just recently discovered their superpowers, according to my mum once. I was a little proud of myself and soon, I had set myself apart from average mortals. The more I developed my powers, the more I set myself apart from them, considering myself special which only increased the distance between my classmates and I.

It was the summer before my first year of high school that my entire world as I knew it fell apart.

Since I discovered my powers, I'd felt a tiny connection to my father, something I'd never had before. Accepting his approval and happiness made me realize that as much as I hated him and detested him and tried my hardest not to turn out like him, I wanted his company and I wanted his love. I wanted that father - son relationship that everyone else seemed to have but me. And I got that. As if he'd only just realized just how much we had in common and delighted in it, he began to come home more often, spend time with me.

And just when I began to get comfortable with it, fall easily into the pattern of the illusion of having a normal family, everything was gone.

I came home that Friday night from the beach, after a quick round of surfing. I was always so comfortable being alone that I only surfed when the sun was setting and everyone was leaving; it was quieter and so much more beautiful on the beach. I loved surfing because it was a solitary sport and it was so intense, you didn't really have to think. It was all in the body. Not to mention being on beach seemed to blow peace and serenity into my mind in ways that people couldn't.

The moment I walked through the door, I was greeted by the sight of my mother siting on the coach and crying herself into a state of exhaustion.

I stopped.

She didn't even seemed to have noticed my presence. She was bowed over the coffee table, shoulders shaking with gigantic sobs that she couldn't seem to stop, one hand pressed over her lips. Her tears were rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto the table. She looked so pitiful, frail and vulnerable, I felt helpless. I was never good at this kind of thing and I particularly detested waterworks and hysterics.

Like the idiot I was, I cleared my throat.

She jumped a little and then looked up at me with wide, bloodshot eyes filled with glittering tears. I took an involuntary step backwards and then wished I didn't but she didn't seem to have noticed. She appeared to have trouble even focusing on me.

"Mum. Wha - ?"

"Oh, Warren," she said, her voice shaking. More tears spilled down her cheeks. She scooped something up from the table and held it out to me. A newspaper.

I flicked a quick glance at the front page. Then I took a longer look, feeling my blood freeze in my veins at the gigantic headline.

**Commander captures the Baron!**

I seized it from her, almost snatching it out of her hands in my rush. My heart was pounding in my ears as I scanned the article, reading about how the amazing Commander and Jetstream had managed to thwart the evil Baron while he'd been robbing the state bank. He was going to a special prison meant just for supervillains, a prison that completely neutralized their powers so they couldn't escape. He would be there until practically his third lie or something; no contact, no visits, nothing.

He was officially out of my life.

I didn't know how I felt. I felt numb. But something was clawing up in my chest and it took awhile before I realized that it was anger. I looked down at the photograph above the article, at the beaming black and white picture of the Commander, heaving my father who was all wrapped up in chains in the air like a prize trophy. Jetstream was drifting behind them, flashing a lipsticked smile at the camera.

The newspaper caught on fire.

My mother squeaked in fright but I barely noticed, I was so incensed.

My father may not have been the best father but I'd been closer to him in the past couple of weeks than I have been for most of my life. I'd just only been getting around to knowing and loving him. Getting around to knowing him. What right did the Commander and Jetstream have, taking him away from me at a time where I finally, _finally_, had some closure where my parents were concerned?

I had no doubt in my mind as I dropped the crumbling remains of the newspaper and stamped it out. They were going to pay for taking away my father.

Painfully.

* * *

><p>The week after my father's capture, my mother moved us all the way to New York to start my first year of high school at Sky High, located in Manhattan. Sky High was actually a superheroes school, a school both she and my father went to because Black Academy had only been created in their last year of high school. It was a relief knowing I wouldn't be going to the supervillain school - no matter how much closer I became to my father, it was still present in my mind to never wanting to be like him - but I wasn't happy going to some goody goody superheroes school either.<p>

"You are going and that's final," my mother said, strangely firmly as we packed our entire life into boxes and loaded up the car. "You're special. You just need to channel those powers into something else. Something - "

"Good?" I finished mockingly.

She turned to frown at me. "Not everything good should be rejected from your mind, Warren," she scolded. "I used to be a superhero too. The world needs more superheroes. There is too much darkness in the world today."

"How nice," I said, without enthusiasm. "And I'm telling you right now that I am not going to be one. I'll go to your stupid school but no way in hell am I going to be lumped in with those do gooders once I graduate. They're enough to make me sick. I can't even contemplate four _years_ with a huge bunch of them, I'll go insane."

She merely looked at me and her frown deepened.

My doubts disappeared however, when we first arrived in Manhattan and I felt my spirits lift. Manhattan was my kind of city; they had this crazy vibe about it that comes with a huge city, lots of people and the smell of success. There were people all over, shops to see, things to do, places to go. I was hanging out of the window by the time we were halfway through, just taking it all in and thinking to myself, _Hey, maybe I could get used to this_. It was like a whole new world for me as we passed arcades and candy shops and interesting shops.

We moved in into a penthouse apartment with three bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen, a living room and incredibly, a game room. It had an incredible view of the city and was fairly quiet being on the edge of the city. According to my mum, we couldn't venture too far into the city or the bus wouldn't be able to pick me up.

"Why don't I just walk to school?" I asked. I wasn't looking forward to sitting on a bus where people would actually try to _talk_ to me. I was used to walking to school, I'd been doing it since first grade. "I don't mind if its far."

Her lips twitched like she wanted to laugh very badly.

"I think you should take the bus," she said. "You'll see why."

I didn't understand naturally - until the first day of school rolled around and I found myself sitting on the bench at the Sky High bus stop, busy people walking past me, off to wok and their lives.

I was people watching when a girl dropped into the seat next to me.

"Hey," she said. She was fairly pretty, I supposed, with dark skin, black hair put up in high pigtails, a cheerleading uniform and a huge very white smile. A pink backpack was thrown over her shoulder and she had a sort of bossy voice - the kind of voice you would hear on mean girls on TV only hers was much more friendlier. "Do I know you? You're a freshman, aren't you?"

I looked at her. "At Sky High? Yeah." I gauged she was one year older than me although it was hard to tell for sure. I was completely useless with guessing people's age. "Are you a senior?"

"Junior," she corrected, making a face. "But actually, the freshman bus is across the road." She gestured to a bus stop across from us, where several white and nervous looking kids were sitting. I felt an uncomfortable feeling in my gut at having to sit with them.

"Sky High has different buses for every grade?" I asked.

"No, only freshmen get their own bus according to the area while the rest are mixed around," she explained. "You'll understand later. They try to give you the element of surprise rather than letting us spoil your fun, you see."

"Oh." I was confused but tried not to let it show. Pulling my leather jacket tighter over my shoulders, I slung my red backpack over my shoulder and stood up. "Thanks for the info." I started to head across the steady stream of traffic to the freshmen bus stop.

"Hang on!" she called from behind me. When I turned, she was frowning reproachfully. "I didn't get your name."

"Oh, right," I said. Of course, it only made sense but then again, I wasn't good with people or anything other than a three word conversation. And I certainly never conversed with pretty girls. "Warren. Warren Peace."

"Nice to meet you." She flashed that megawatt smile of hers that nearly blinded me. She stuck out her hand and I took it. "I'm Penny."

"Okay, good to meet you," I said, slipping my hand out of her grasp.

"If you need any help around Sky High, just ask me," she added. "I get around a lot so I know most of Sky High and its residents." She smiled again.

"Sure, thanks," I said again, uncomfortably. This had to be the longest conversation I'd ever gone through. "Well, see ya there then." I looked both ways and dashed across the street just in time as a large yellow school bus came to a stop in front of the freshman bus stop. I looped around the back and followed the kids filing in. The bus driver - a chubby guy with a cap and uniform and an overly expressive face - called out, "Good morning!" I ignored him and headed straight for the back as I always did.

The moment I sat down, I dumped my bag in the seat beside me and looked out of the window. I basically tuned out everyone else as the bus rumbled to its next stop and picked up a couple more people. Nobody tried to talk or sit next to me, much to my relief.

The bus stopped at at least three more stops. I was seriously starting to get annoyed. What was the big deal with Sky High that I couldn't walk? Where was the stupid place anyway?

At last, the doors whispered shut for the last time and the few kids getting onboard scrambled into their seats.

"Okay," said the bus driver suddenly, in a mock serious voice. "Let's do this!"

He pulled a lever, switched his orange cap with another orange cap, tore off part of his sleeve to reveal a blue logo on the side of his shoulder and hit the accelerator. The bus picked up speed - _wayy_ too much speed for such a huge bus. The wordings on the side of the bus switched from _School Bus_ to _Sky High School Bus_. Within seconds, we'd turned off into a bridge - a half bridge anyway, with the middle broken cleanly off. Seatbelts snaked to a cross over my body and clicked into place.

I was beyond confused.

"Hold on back there!" The bus driver called dramatically over his shoulder. "We're going off road."

The bus picked up speed. I straightened up in my seat just in time to see the danger board blocking the non existence of the other half of the bridge flatten to allow the bus to pass.

Before I could even form a thought, the bus revved off the the bridge.

For a moment, we hung suspended in midair. Just when I'd breathed a soft sigh of relief, we plummeted about a hundred feet per hour. My heart slammed into my throat.

One thought stayed crystal clear in my mind.

_I was going to die_.

* * *

><p>I wanted to end it when he met Will and Layla but unfortunately, I wrote too much. D: Sorry, guys. But the meeting between him, Will and Layla will be next chapter. :)<p>

This has to be the longest I actually worked on a chapter. ._. I hope you guys enjoy it!

I appear to be in the mood for some Flinx. :p

x iRomantic


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